One friend writes from prison,
as helpless as I am
to help him.
Another friend, dead, reveals
himself through words left behind, signs
of him I never noticed
when I thought I knew him,
the same signs I’m thinking/writing
now, in the back yard,
a fire in the chimenea, October leaves
in clumps under the trees.
From what I can tell, my self
reveals itself in spurts that I react to
afterwards. Words help me
understand what underlies—
or are they lies I write
myself, like letters from a prison
to an imagined friend
outside, where I’m not
allowed to go, locked up
inside my body in the dark,
where the impulses are born
and flash.
(Photo by chicagogeek)
